


Death is at the Doorstep

by elegantdalek



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Hellhounds, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:24:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantdalek/pseuds/elegantdalek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fuck Ruby and Lilith and the demon knife; Dean has 24 hours left to live and he wants to spend it with his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death is at the Doorstep

It takes a solid night of drinking for Dean to say what Sam knows he's been thinking for a while. His voice is slurred and heavy with whiskey but the intent is bold upon his face. Dean says that if it comes down to it - if they get up to 24 hours before his deal is due and they haven't come up with a way to end it, he wants to stop. Stop and watch bad movies and get drunk with his brother. It kills Sam to agree to it. Every part of him is screaming to say, 'no, Dean, we'll stop it, you aren't going to hell,' but one look into Dean's eyes forces his mouth numb and he can only nod in agreement. Sometimes when Dean is drunk he looks like a million bucks, with a woman on either side and a bright smile on his face. But other times, like now, he looks like a young child, the way Sam remembers him from his earliest memories. He looks scared and small and there's nothing more Sam wants to do than wrap his arms around his brother and never let go.

So he agrees to stop trying, if they get to 24 hours, because it _won't_ happen. Sam won't let it.

So, of course, when it inevitably happens, 24 hours left and no fucking clue how to end the deal, Sam forgets about his promise. But Dean doesn't. He puts his hand on Sam’s back, in the middle of a book on ancient mythology, and says that it's time. Sam is confused at first, and then when Dean explains, mad. Furious, even. He can't give up on Dean. He pushes Dean away, fingers raw from flipping through the old pages. But, once again, Dean wins him over. He looks like he's going to cry; hell maybe he is crying. He winds him thumb into Sam's neck and looks so helpless that Sam says ok and closes the book.

Dean must have explained to Bobby earlier because he doesn't try to stop them. He hugs Dean close before they leave, Sam too, and looks dangerously close to tearing up himself. He tells Sam to call after it happens.

On the road it feels like any other day of the year, bright headlights cutting through the dark of the night. But Dean is too carefree, trying too hard. He's singing along to the radio and playfully swatting at Sam but his voice catches slightly and the touches last a little longer than necessary. It's all Sam can do to stop from bursting into tears. He tries not to think about it but it's the only thing on his mind: Dean dying, Dean dead, nothing Sam can do to stop it. He tried for months, god knows he tried, but he didn't try hard enough. And now Dean is going to die. Die, go to hell, and he wants to sit in a motel room with Sam? Sam feels powerless but Dean keeps calling him 'Sammy' and he can't help but go along with it all.

They drive for a few hours before Dean abruptly pulls off the highway and stops at a liquor store. "Gotta stock up, Sammy!" Dean calls already halfway to the door. It's the middle of the night but Dean is dying in 19 hours so who cares. He comes back with two bottles of jack and a 12 pack of beer which he tosses onto Sam's lap through the open window. The condensation seeps into his jeans, but they pull into a motel less than a minute later. It's a little pricier than they usually go for, but Sam's not complaining. If he has to have memories of his brother dying in front of him he'd rather have them without a background of skeezy stains on the bedspreads and walls.

Dean finishes his first beer before they even make it into the room and from that point on Sam struggles to keep up. A few hours later there are empty beer cans strewn about the floor and they're sharing the second bottle of whiskey. It's more than Sam usually likes to drink, but Dean keeps going so Sam follows. 'The Mummy' is playing on the TV, but neither one is really paying attention. They threw off their shoes a few beers ago and are sitting on one of the beds together because neither wanted to sit alone. Not tonight.

Dean's laughing about some long ago hunt, back when Sam was barely tall enough to see over the Impala dashboard. Sam isn't really listening; he's captivated by Dean's face. He can't remember the last time he saw Dean grin. The last few months have been a flurry of research and hunting and mindless desire to stop Dean's deal. Sam almost feels regret now because all of it was for nothing. They could have spent the last year visiting the grand canyon and drinking on the side of the road and hell, hitting up girls in bars if it'd make Dean happy. But at least Dean likes hunting. He enjoys killing the bad guys and setting things right. That's why Sam still doesn't understand why Dean won't try harder to save himself. He's one of the good guys.

“Dean,” Sam says, and the talking stops immediately. Dean never could stop himself from giving Sam his full attention. Dean stares at him and Sam is momentarily unable to talk, blinded by the brightness of his brother’s eyes. He’s hasn’t allowed himself to stare at Dean like this in years, and his brother is so beautiful it almost hurts to look at. The scars on his face and arms only seek to enhance his beauty and Sam finds himself trying to catalog each one. Overwhelming sadness flows over him when he finds a scar he can’t place the origin of, one he knows must have occurred when he was at Stanford, and why the fuck did he think it would be a good idea to leave his brother?

“I’m sorry I left you for Stanford,” Sam blurts out and Dean actually looks shocked, his reaction coming faster than the alcohol probably should have allowed.

“That’s not what I was expecting,” Dean says, voice slurring into a slight drawl. Dean must be drunker than Sam realized. He grabs the bottle from Dean’s hands and takes a long drink.

“I am, Dean, I swear. I wish I could have spent that time with you.” Dean hates emotional talk, but hell, Sam’s running out of time here. He’s got to tell Dean while he still can.

Dean’s face softens and he reaches out and rests his hand on Sam’s knee. “It’s okay, Sammy, water under the bridge, dude.”

“No it’s not! I left you. I swore I would never do it again. And I swore I would save you, Dean, but I didn’t. I’m sorry.” Sam drinks more of the whiskey to calm his beating heart but Dean’s grip on his knee is only getting tighter and makes it worse. “Whatever you want, Dean, whatever you want to do before…we’ll do it okay? I promise.”

“This is all I want, Sam,” Dean says, suddenly sounding a hell of a lot more sober than he is. “I want you.” The air is stuffy and the sheets are rough beneath Sam’s legs but Dean is still staring at him, lips parted, and Sam can’t take it anymore. He crushes his lips roughly against Dean’s and feels the gasp escape Dean’s mouth.

“Sammy,” Dean whimpers through tongue and teeth, and squeezes Sam’s legs so tight he knows they’ll be bruises there tomorrow. It’s suddenly like there’s no time left to wait, but actually there isn’t, that’s the hell of it. There’s no time to stop and think about what they’re doing, only time to peel off their clothes and press together.

Dean’s body is soft and warm beneath Sam’s hands and he can’t figure out why he didn’t know this before now. Dean’s mouth alternates between moaning out Sam’s name and licking at any part of Sam’s body that he can reach and Sam runs his hand down the side of Dean’s body, presses his fingers into the soft skin at Dean’s thighs. Dean’s cock tastes like whiskey and musky sweat and Dean twists his fingers in Sam’s hair, encouraging him.

But after a few minutes Dean pulls him back up to his mouth and Sam fits his own aching cock next to Dean’s, trapped between their bellies. Dean arches his hips up against Sam’s, thrusting as much as he can with Sam’s weight above him, and Sam comes like that, kissing his brother through his orgasm, sucking on Dean’s tongue when he feels Dean’s warm release mix with his.

Sam is suddenly aware that he’s crushing Dean so he flips, taking Dean with him, and pulls him onto his chest. Dean doesn’t protest, only adjusts so he’s more comfortable, and they fall asleep with Dean’s hand curled around Sam’s chin and Sam’s heartbeat under his ear.

Sam wakes later and the sun is streaming through the windows and he can see the edge of the Impala parked outside. They haven’t been asleep for long and Sam feels drunker now than when he fell asleep. Dean is a heavy weight on his chest, a welcome comfort, but it only takes a few seconds for Sam to remember what’s going to happen soon, why they are sleeping together, and shivers rake up and down his body. Dean starts to stir and Sam kisses his face, murmuring his name over and over. There’s no time for embarrassment and regret today. They understand each other better with looks and touches anyways. Words complicate things.

“Gotta piss, dude,” Dean says after softly kissing Sam for a few minutes, and damn it if Sam’s heart doesn’t burst with love for his brother. When Dean is in the bathroom Sam finds the discarded bottle of whiskey on the floor. He chugs half of the rest of it down. It’s fire on his throat and lungs but he relishes the pain and welcomes the haziness descending through his head. Dean helps him finish the bottle and they fall back onto the bed in a blur of limbs. The sex isn’t that good because they’re drunk and not really sure what they’re doing but there’s no time to learn. It only makes Sam press closer to Dean, hold him tighter, kiss every inch of skin.

Sam doesn’t look at the clock, doesn’t want to know what time it is, but they close the curtains and get into the other bed, under the covers, and sleep as close together as possible. Sam wraps his arms possessively around Dean; maybe if he holds tight enough the hellhounds won’t get his brother.

There hasn’t been much time to sleep lately. There never is, really, with things to kill and people to save, but the last few months have been especially rough. So now that they’re letting go, giving in, they sleep for hours. They adjust their positions a few times, Dean’s back to Sam’s chest, legs tangled around each other, fingers twisted together. It’s dark again when Sam wakes up and his heart starts beating uncontrollably. He knows he’s waking Dean up and he tries to calm himself but it’s no use. Dean is awake, looking at him, calling his name, but tears are starting to leak from his eyes and there’s no turning back.

Sam sits up and looks at the clock now, and it is 11:15. A sob escapes his mouth. “It’s gonna be okay, Sammy,” Dean says, arms at his back, but it only makes Sam cry more.

“Goofer dust?” Sam manages to say and Dean nods, gets up to look for his bag.

“Shit, it’s in the trunk.” Dean grabs his jeans instead and pulls them on. But Sam doesn’t want to be apart for Dean, not for a second, so he tugs on his clothes as well and follows him out to the Impala.

Everything Dean does now reminds Sam that he’s never going to see Dean do it again. He’s never going to see Dean digging through the weapons again, never going to see Dean running his hand over the top of his baby, never going to see the slight bow in Dean’s legs. He can’t imagine what Dean’s feeling right now. But after Dean closes the trunk he turns his gaze upwards and Sam knows he must be thinking about sights he’s never going to see again, either. They’re far enough away from any large cities to be able to see a fair amount of stars and Sam looks up at them too. There’s a new moon tonight.

“Sammy?” Dean asks softly after a moment of looking at the stars. “Will you look at the stars for me when I’m gone?”

“Yeah, of course,” Sam says and Dean looks over at him and smiles. His face is calm but his eyes betray his fright and Sam pulls him into a hug. Dean is really cold and leans his head down into Sam’s shoulder. He squeezes tight and the wind blows his hair over Dean’s head. After a minute, hugging in the parking lot outside their room, Sam starts to calm down. He resolutely refuses to think about anything other than hugging Dean. But then Dean’s entire body tenses and Sam feels his body go rigid in response.

“Dean?” Sam asks, knowing the answer.

Dean’s eyes are wide with terror now. “I can hear them, Sammy.”

The goofer dust is in Dean’s hand and Sam takes it, grabbing Dean’s hand with his other one and pulls him back into the motel room. He spreads a thick line along the door and windows and then circles their bed. Dean is biting his nails, watching Sam, and wordlessly joins him on the bed when the bag is empty.

They leave most of their clothes on this time and lean against the headboard holding each other. Now that the time is almost here and there is nothing to do but wait, Sam can’t hold his emotions back. He openly cries and Dean holds him, kissing his exposed neck and chest.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Sam was the one who was supposed to comfort Dean, not the other way around.

The thought only makes Sam cry harder and press his fingers deeper into Dean’s skin. They kiss a little, lips seeking to both receive and deliver devotion and love and there isn’t really anything to say beyond their names.

The clock is facing them and Sam tries not to look at it but the red numbers pierce through the darkness and draw him in. When the 11 turns into a 12 he panics. There has to be something he hasn’t thought of, something he can do to stop this. He sits up, ready to pounce out of bed, even fight the damn hellhounds with his bare hands, because he can hear them now at the door. But Dean says his name, just his name, barely a whisper, and Sam crumples. He falls back onto the bed and pulls Dean into his arms, wraps his legs around him too. “They’re not getting you, Dean. I won’t let them,” Sam sobs, and cradles Dean’s head against his neck. Dean’s tears are wet on his skin.

Sam holds Dean tighter than he ever has before. Dean is his and no fucking hound is taking Dean away from him.

When Sam feels Dean slip from his arms he gets hysterical. “Sammy!” Dean cries out and Sam reaches for him, pulls back as hard as he can, but blood is flying in his face and making his hands slippery and he’s screaming Dean’s name out, cursing the hellhounds, but Dean is being torn to pieces on the floor in front of him. Sam lunges out and tries to grab the invisible beast, but it throws him off into the corner. It only wants Dean.

Sam’s ears are full of Dean’s screams and he joins in, tears and blood blurring his vision, and tries to get to Dean. Suddenly all the sounds stop and Dean’s body is still. The strange force keeping Sam back is gone and he leans over his brother but all that looks back are lifeless eyes. “Dean,” Sam weeps, and holds Dean’s head in his hands. His brother is covered in deep gashes, blood still flowing freely, and Sam doesn’t know what to do.

Sam pulls Dean into his arms and his clothes are covered in blood but he doesn’t care. He sobs into Dean’s dead body and calls his name over and over.

What the hell is he supposed to do now? 


End file.
